


The Campaign

by Willia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drinking, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recovery, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 12:15:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willia/pseuds/Willia
Summary: The year is 2000, and Harry gets roped into being the face to a Wizarding mental health awareness campaign... Which would be just fine, if it weren’t for the fact that the photographer is none other than Draco Malfoy.





	1. The campaign

When the War had ended, Harry had guessed he would finally escape the press. Which he did, for the record, after the excitement caused by Voldemort’s death had settled.

Well, for the most part.

A couple of years had passed since the Boy Who Lived had saved the world, and most people hadn’t mentioned him at all in a long time. Children were growing up without hearing his name. Papers avoided talking about the War. Which is why he was so surprised by Hermione’s request.

"You want me to _what_?" he asked, bewildered.

"As a favour!" she argued. "Please?"

Harry sighed, taking a sip of his tea. He guessed lending his face and story for an interview wasn’t really that bad... And Hermione knew how much he hated attention from the press, so he reckoned she wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.

Hermione was sitting in front of him in her and Ron’s kitchen, her own cup of tea in her hands. “It would help so much,” she said, confirming his suppositions. She squared her shoulders, adopting her Ministry Official posture and voice. "As much as people have been trying to avoid the situation, Wizards’ mental stability and well-being have reached a record low because of the recent War." She breathed in a bit shakily, and Harry guessed the same gruesome images of the War were flashing before her eyes.

She was right, of course she was.

"So, what, you need me to go on record saying that it’s okay not to be okay?"

"Pretty much!" She took a sip of tea, before adding: "We need a mental health awareness campaign, with photos and interviews. The Ministry did train and provide funds for a good amount of therapists and counsellors to be available, but no one visits them! It’s...not part of your culture, or something like that."

"Hey," Harry protested, "I was raised a Muggle."

"I know, right, and that’s why you’re okay with going to therapy!"

"Um-umm," he said, quickly, taking a big gulp of tea.

"Harry."

"Yeah?"

"You _are_ going to therapy, ain’t you?"

Harry sighed, and Hermione just glared at him, waiting. If she’d been a cartoon character she’d be tapping her foot impatiently. The image amused Harry, for just a second, before he remembered it really wasn’t a good idea to piss Hermione off, ever.

"I did go! I just....stopped, that’s all!" He was going to add some kind of excuse, but Hermione was still glaring, and he knew she was right. "I’ll go back," he promised, "and I’ll do the interview."

Hermione’s shoulders relaxed, and she got up to wash her now-empty cup. Harry watched her walk to the sink, thinking the conversation she wanted to have hadn’t gone so bad after all.

That is, until she turned her head around slightly, not looking at him, just enough for her voice to carry, and added nonchalantly: "Oh, by the way, the photos? They’ll be done by Draco Malfoy."

Harry was willing to render many things public, but he would never, ever, reveal that he choked on his Jaffa Cake upon hearing that name– and that he might have simply coughed to death were it not for Hermione’s quick reflexes and precise magic skills.


	2. The photoshoot

For what it's worth, Harry did go back to therapy. He knew better than to break a promise to Hermione. He was a Gryffindor, but he wasn't stupid.

He'd like to believe he would have gone back on his own, eventually, when the nightmares got too bad, but he wasn't certain of that fact. An entire childhood spent dealing with issues on his own wasn't an easy habit to shake, even followed by many years of having dedicated friends by his sides.

But whatever the reason, he did go back to therapy. And he also answered positively when a Ministry owl delivered him an official note asking him to get involved in this awareness campaign. He'd been given a time and place for the interview, which he went to, and then another time and place for the photoshoot. All through third parties, meaning that when he headed out on Wednesday morning, on his way to some studio on Diagon Alley, he hadn't seen, or spoken to Draco Malfoy since the end of the War.

He found the entrance fairly easily, following the letter’s instructions, and pushed the white wooden door a few minutes before his appointed time. There was a vestibule with a few chairs and a door that seemed to lead to bathrooms on the right, and in front of him another one that read “Studio”. The Ministry letter had told him to simply enter, so he did.

The studio looked exactly like what he'd think a photography studio would look like. It was a small, minimalist room, with a couple of wardrobe by the entrance, a room divider for changing, a few tables with bottles of water and make-up scattered on them, and a ceiling-high white screen surrounded by lamps. Though Harry guessed that muggle studios had light bulbs in said lamps, instead of the magical fire that seemed to be cracklings in these.

When Harry walked in, he didn’t see anyone. He couldn’t have got the wrong place– there probably weren’t that many photography studios around Diagon Alley–, so he wondered if he’d got the wrong time. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d made such a mistake.

But then, he heard a clicking sound coming from beyond the tallest wardrobe, attracting his gaze.

Draco Malfoy was there. He had his face lowered towards a camera he was holding, clicking parts into place, before turning it around to slide a memory card in it; but there was no mistaking that hair, that was Malfoy hair.

He finally looked up, and Harry froze. It has to be noted that Draco had stopped moving as well, mouth partly open, his fingers half-way through sliding the memory card compartment close.

Harry noticed distractedly that Draco hadn’t changed much. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, it had only been a few years, after all, but seeing the exact same face that had saved his life in the Manor, the same face that _he_ had saved in the Room of Requirements... He somehow hadn’t expected that.

His clothes seemed to have evolved, though. Draco, who was known for wearing tailored suits at every occasion, was standing there in jeans and a plain shirt, and there was something incredibly alien about it. Like he was wearing a disguise.

"H-hey," Draco finally said. "You’re early."

"What’s up," said Harry, mentally kicking himself.

Draco didn’t answer. He took a step forward, as though he was going to shake his hand, and then he seemed to change his mind and he just nodded. "So... Just so you know, I don’t want this any more than you do," Draco said, staring at him. "It’s just– I’m sort of the only experienced photographer the Ministry had, and they also somehow came to the conclusion that since– since we know each other, this would...make sense." He let out a nervous laugh.

"With all due respect, this is bullshit."

"It is. I guess it’s Hogwarts inter-house project pairing all over again, isn’t it?" Draco had his head leaning to the side, and he was attentively looking up at him from under loose strands of hair. "Anyway, I just wanted to make it clear, I’m not any more happy about this, but I’m not here to sabotage you or anything."

Harry nodded, his face serious. "You did sabotage a lot of my potions, back at Hogwarts."

Draco seemed to blemish even more than his naturally pale skin. "Shit, I should have known." He grabbed a few lenses from the table, shoving them into a nearby backpack. He looked frantic now. His eyes were avoiding Harry. "I’ll– I’ll ask the Ministry to send someone else. They can probably find another photographer."

"I was–" Harry said, loudly, loudly enough to make Draco pause and look at him, "I was joking. It’s okay, really."

"That’s your idea of a joke?" He sounded incredulous.

"Sorry, I shouldn’t have."

This was awkward. All of it. This entire situation. Their relationship had been tense, over the years, suspicious, hateful, competitive, but never, ever had it been awkward. Harry wanted to walk out and forget this ever happened.

Harry closed his eyes, breathed out. _Not everything can work out perfectly from the first try_ , he heard his therapist’s voice say. He opened his eyes again. Nodded firmly. He extended his hand with a weird déjà-vu feeling, and said: "I’m here to be photographed, and you’re a photographer. Shall we do this?"

Draco shook his hand. They held eye contact for a few instants, and Harry realised they had never done such a thing without jumping at each other’s throat right after.

It was...refreshing.

Draco turned back to the table against the wall, removing his lenses from the backpack. Harry looked around the room, taking a few steps here and there to examine everything a bit closer. Both out of a need to keep busy and out of genuine curiosity.

"So, photographer, eh?" He asked, while Draco seemed to be deciding between two lenses. "Truly not a line of work I pictured you in."

"What did you picture me doing?"

"I dunno. I think I just imagined you'd inherit the Manor and live happily ever after in its lovely, gloomy rooms." Harry thought for a second that he saw Draco’s shoulders tense, but then the moment passed. "Or maybe in some high position in the Ministry. Always wearing a suit. Trudging the hallways with your head high, putting all that..aristocracy knowledge to good use." Harry had meant to say _dark arts_ instead of aristocracy, but he’d decided at the last second that this wasn’t the best plan.

Draco shrugged nonchalantly, too nonchalantly not to be calculated, and he said: "Yeah, well, I doubt the Ministry will hire any Malfoy for a good century."

"Don’t you work for the Ministry?"

"I’m freelance, actually, but I have just enough ties with the Ministry that they call on me fairly often. And, you know. I know a lot about the _aristocracy_."

Harry ignored the emphasis on the last word. "You photograph people?" he asked instead.

"Mostly, yes."

"And how does that work? With the whole...Malfoy thing?"

“Well, I am certainly not adored within the wizarding community, but you learn to work around it. My family has earned its terrible reputation, after all.” He didn’t sound like he was asking for pity. He was just stating facts. "Anyway," he breathed out, seeming to have settled on a lens, "shall we get started? Since this is a campaign about mental health I was thinking we’d keep it simple, dark clothes, minimalist background, just enough to pull the viewer’s eye to your face without distracting from the message."

He continued on this professional voice that Harry had never heard, presented him a pile of clothes, gave a few more instructions, and once he had changed the shooting itself happened. More changes of clothes, some light touches of make-up– which was weird, and also made Harry think that maybe the reason why there wasn’t a make-up artist, nor a hairstylist, was simply Malfoy’s name.

It wasn’t the first photoshoot Harry had taken part in, far from it, but it was certainly the strangest. He’d never been that comfortable with cameras, and he couldn’t quite tell if the fact that his old school Nemesis was behind this one made it better or worse.

Harry tried talking a few more times, but he was quickly shut down. Not in the mocking tone he had come to expect, though, but in this calm professionalism that he found himself envy a little. Just a little bit. He’d never been able to separate his emotions like that, compartmentalise aspects of himself.

He heard his therapist’s voice again then, in his head, saying, _emotions have to be felt, you can bottle them up all you want, they will come back and bite you in the ass someday_.

Harry’s therapist was cool like that. It’s one of the reasons he actually enjoyed going there. Oh, and the whole ‘helping him deal with childhood and adolescence trauma’ thing, that was a nice bonus.

The photoshoot extended over the entire morning, and, by the time they were done, Harry felt his stomach growling. He looked up at Draco, who was organising his camera gear back into his bag, his back turned on him. "Hey, do you wanna go grab a bite?"

Draco froze.  _That’s a no_ , thought Harry. But then he turned around, expression guarded, and said, slowly: "Sure... Where did you have in mind?"

"I don’t know, we’re in Diagon Alley, I can think of a few restaurants."

Draco hoisted his bag on his shoulder. "Alright then."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah, why not, I didn’t have anything planned."

"No loving wife waiting for you at home?"

Draco groaned. "I’m not having this conversation on an empty stomach."

"That’s....fair."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

They ended up in a small café not far from Flourish and Blotts, sitting outside to soak in the late summer warmth.

They made small talk, and it felt strange.

"Earlier," Draco said after eating a chip, "you asked why I was a photographer."

"I did. You said they wouldn’t let a Malfoy occupy any high position in the Ministry."

"That’s true. But there’s something else. The reason why I take photos. In general. I don’t just do this for money, you know, I actually do it outside of my job." He took a big gulp of water, and clenched his jaw, as though he was preparing for battle. Just when Harry was about to nudge him along, he continued: "I feel like you’re probably familiar with PTSD."

"I am," Harry confirmed, tasting bile in his throat. Talking about this sort of things was always strange, and maybe it was the fact that they’d just taken photos for a campaign about these subjects, but it didn’t feel quite as hard right now.

"Helen– she’s my psychiatrist, she... She pushed me towards photography. She said it would help my brain remember what was real and what wasn’t. And the most surprising thing is, it actually works!" He grunted. "Well, somewhat. It’s not perfect. But Helen said recovery wasn’t linear, so... I don’t know. I’m just doing my best to follow her advice."

Harry was silent for a moment. He watched Draco eat a few chips from the tip of his fingers, dainty as chip-eating could be. "You don’t have to tell me all this," he finally said.

"I know, I wanted to. I don’t mean to lay my shit on you, Potter." He shook his head. "It’s just– There’s this– Shit, you’re going to think I’m crazy."

"Try me."

Draco breathed in. "I feel like we’re similar, somehow. Despite... Everything. I feel like you could get me– and I could get you."

Harry remained silent. If he’d heard this just a few years before, he’d have rolled on the floor laughing; but today, this made sense in some deep part of him. And it wasn’t funny. It really wasn’t. He looked at his glass, and when he straightened up Draco was looking at him. Scrutinising him.

"You might be onto something," he murmured.

Draco slumped slightly, as though he’d been holding a breath. Harry went back to his food. Silence stretched between them, though they were both too lost in thought to notice. They ate chips in silence while the sun was sinking, its light bouncing off the polished bricks of the street.

"So, you don’t live at your family Manor?" Harry asked after a while.

"No." Draco winced. "I’m sure you can imagine why."

Harry could imagine it. He could imagine it very well. As much as he couldn’t picture the Malfoy Manor as a childhood home, it had very much been Draco’s. Until Voldemort has moved in, with all the blood and screams and tears that entailed. He shivered.

"My parents still live there," Draco commented. "They don’t like it, but they can’t exactly sell it. I got myself a flat in a muggle neighbourhood."

The mental image of Draco in a muggle studio was so strange, that Harry’s brain almost immediately rejected it. "How’s flat life treating you?"

"Oh, it _is_ small. I keep bumping into my furniture. And I’ve got to be careful about muggles, I can’t exactly let Mary, 72, see my plates hovering above my sink. I have been informed that it was not a very good idea." Draco contained a smile at Harry's muffled laughter. "And my family has been forbidden to use the assistance of house elves."

Harry was trying to picture Draco washing his own plates the muggle way, and it was a bizarre vision indeed. "No house elves, Hermione would be ecstatic."

"I’m sure she would be. I heard she was the one who pushed for the creation of house elf unions?"

Harry snorted. "Yeah, she is! It was one of the main reasons she wanted to work for the Magical Creature department, I think."

Draco shook his head, but didn’t add anything.

"And you live there alone?" Harry asked, curious.

"Yeah." Draco shrugged. "Who would willingly live with a Malfoy?" Once again, no self-pity in his voice, just cold facts.

Harry ate a chip, considering. "I don’t know, a nice pureblood lady?"

"For a tolerant wizard you’re full of prejudices."

"Holy shit," Harry said flatly.

Draco laughed at that, a clear, spontaneous sound that took Harry by surprise. He smiled.

When he spoke again, Draco was pointedly looking at his plate. "But, pureblood or not, and much to my parents’ dismay, I wouldn’t be living with a lady, Potter."

Harry stared at him. And then, "Oh."

"Yeah," Draco said with a shaky laugh. He looked back up at him.

"Holy shit, when did you know?"

Draco took a second to think. "Probably along sixth year? Though I had other things to worry about."

_Like murdering Dumbledore_ , Harry thought. He didn’t say it out loud, but the look on Draco’s face told him he was thinking the same thing. "About sixth year," he said instead, quickly, before he could chicken out, "I truly am sorry for what I– for the curse. In the bathroom." He gestured vaguely at his body, wondering if his spell had left any scars.

Draco winced. He didn’t add anything on the subject, instead he just ate a few more bites of his food. This time, the silence was heavier.

"And you," Draco said when the crushing of chips got too loud to bear, "you were with the Weasley girl, right? How’s that going?"

Harry forced a smile that felt like a wince. "It’s not going."

"Not going well?"

"Not going at all." Harry sighed. "I don’t know what it was. If it’s on me, or the War, or my PTSD... It just stopped working. It felt wrong. Like we’d been tilted out of place, and we... fell out of sync."

Draco nodded, attentive. "I’m sorry it didn’t work out."

"Yeah, well... You gotta learn to let go, I guess. Relationships are uncertain. And for what it’s worth–" he looked at Draco defiantly, his cheeks warm– "I could also end up with a man."

It took a few instants for Draco to react, and then he started laughing, loud and happy, so un-Draco-like that Harry wondered if he’d broken him. "Shit, Potter, if the wizarding community would hate to know that the worst of pariahs is gay, I can’t imagine their faces when they learn their golden saviour isn’t straight either!"

Harry pursed his lips. Draco was absolutely right. And he probably would have to make a decision about how public he wanted this information to be, but that was a problem entirely for another day.

"When did _you_ realise?" Draco asked.

"Year four, probably."

Draco seemed to be searching back in his memory. "Please don’t tell me it was Krum," he begged with wide eyes.

"I won’t tell you it was Krum," said Harry, helpfully.

"Was it Krum?"

"It was Krum."

Draco buried his face in his hands, but not before Harry noticed the grin on his lips. "Merlin, Potter, seriously?"

Harry crossed his arm, cheeks still red. "Who was _your_ awakening, then, if you’ve got such good tastes?"

A beat of silence, as Draco looked up from his hands, not smiling anymore. "You were."

Harry’s heart dropped in his stomach. His arms uncrossed despite himself. "I–"

"So no, as you can see, my tastes are not that much better." Draco’s cheeks were pink.

Harry laughed nervously. "That is way too much new information for one day and I can’t process this right now."

"That’s fair."

"Merlin."

"Yeah."

They finished eating in silence, and both their plates were soon empty. Harry deposited a few galleons on the table, and he got up. "I have to go, things to do at my house." That wasn’t entirely true, but he needed to be alone to process all this information. "Thanks for the photos. This was fun. The meal. I... I wouldn’t be against seeing you again." He swallowed. "I do think we might somewhat get each other, Malfoy."

"Hey..." Draco began. He seemed to change his mind, before shaking his head to himself, and continuing. "I have a request."

"Yeah?"

"Can you drop the Malfoy? I know it’s unfair of me, We– I’ve deserved my bad reputation, but... If we are to talk again, I’d rather not have to think about _this_ too much." He glanced upwards, and Harry realised he meant his hair. The infamous Malfoy hair.

"Okay. Draco, then?" The word felt foreign in Harry’s mouth.

Draco nodded. "Thanks... Harry?"

"Yeah, Harry works fine."

Harry nodded. Draco nodded. The moment stretched, more than was comfortable, before Harry remembered he was in the process of leaving.

"See you around, then."

"See you around."


	3. Lunch and gossips

Harry joined Ron and Hermione for lunch at their place the very next day, and he told them about the photoshoot. Neither commented on anything until he reached the part where they went to the restaurant together, when Hermione exclaimed, "You had dinner with Malfoy?"

"He had dinner with _who_?" Ron said, lifting his face from his plate.

Harry raised his hands defensively. "More like lunch. Late lunch. Linner?"

Hermione pointed her finger at him. "Okay, smartass, point is, you sat down with Malfoy and made polite conversation for the duration of a meal."

"I don’t believe it," said Ron.

"What happened? I thought you didn’t even want to go to the photoshoot!"

"Honestly, I don’t know, Hermione, but it was... it was nice."

Ron put his fork down. "Who are you and what have you done with my Harry? Malfoy isn’t nice!"

"I didn’t say he was! I said _it_ was nice!"

Ron grumbled, but went back to his plate. This clearly wasn’t an event big enough to make him forget about his food.

"What did you even talk about?" Hermione asked.

"This and that, Hogwarts, the War, therapy..."

"Screw that, I wanna know some gossip," Ron said.

"Oh, you want gossip?" Harry couldn’t keep a sly smile from slipping on his lips.

"Yes!"

"He’s gay."

There was a moment of silence, and then an awful choking noise. Hermione got up in an instant to stand by Ron’s sides and pat his back, as he was trying to regain his composure. "Bloody hell," he finally said.

"I thought he dated that girl, Pansy Parkinson, back in, what was it, sixth year?" offered Hermione.

Harry shrugged, thinking of the fact that he’d allegedly been Draco’s big gay awakening. "I don’t know, apparently that’s the year he realised he wasn’t straight." He bit into a piece of bread.

A few years back, Ron might have made a snarky comment about Pansy turning him gay, but he’d learnt to be more delicate about this sort of things since Harry had come out to them. It had taken him a a while, especially since his sister was involved back then, but he’d eventually come around.

Hermione shrugged. "I don’t know, it makes sense to me."

Ron looked up at her, frowning. "It does?"

"Yeah, I mean, it makes sense that you’d realise something like that about yourself when you’re actually on the verge of dating."

"Sometimes you scare me, you know that," said Ron, "is there anything you wanna tell me?"

Hermione laughed. "I promise I’m straight, Ron."

He grumbled, and she kissed him softly on the cheek. Harry couldn’t help but smile. Somewhere in the corner of his mind, he hoped he’d find someone else like Ginny again, someone he could share his fears and struggles and nights with.

"So what about Malfoy?" Hermione asked.

"Pardon?"

"What about Malfoy, are you going to see him again?"

Ron snorted. "Don’t be ridiculous, Hermione, he's not gonna–"

"I think I might, yeah."

Ron stared at him. Harry raised his hand defensively. "Hey, I did say I had a nice time! And– I don’t know." He let his arms fall back at his side. "My therapist said I shouldn’t run from my past."

"She didn’t say you should make out with it either."

"Ronald!"

Harry snorted, before seeing Hermione’s disapproving eyes on him. "What, it _is_ funny!"


	4. Queer wizards

The next few times Harry and Draco talked were still somewhat awkward in some places, just like two dancers who’d just met needing time to figure out how to work together. More often than not it was Harry who’d send a letter with a suggested time and place, and they’d meet for lunch when Draco wasn’t working, or coffee in the afternoon, and they’d talk.

It’d often start as trivial chats, and then dive into dizzyingly complex subjects. Harry found that he liked that. It’s not that he couldn’t have these types of chats with his friends, it’s that he was too afraid of their judgement to voice some things sometimes. But that wasn’t an issue with Draco; on the contrary, shocking him from time to time happened to be a very fun activity.

Their chats weirdly reminded Harry of his therapy sessions, minus the expertise. He wasn’t holding back on much, and Draco always gave him his thoughts clear and honest and brutal. Not rudely though, which Harry appreciated.

They also found themselves bonding over their shared queerness. As it turns out, neither of them could name more than one other queer wizard, some witch who’d lived openly as a lesbian back in the 15th century.

"We can’t be that rare though, can we?" Draco asked one day as they sat in a muggle pub.

"Hermione says it’s the wizarding culture. She says our society is somewhat late on the muggle one–"

Draco scoffed.

"I mean come on! We use quills. Quills, Draco."

"Ugh, maybe," Draco grumbled. "What’s your point?"

"Muggles are getting more and more open about.. what we are. And they’ve been for decades. Hermione says we’re still stuck in the early 20th century."

"That can’t be."

"That’s what she told me." Harry shrugged. "Apparently the Muggle government of the Netherlands is having talks right now about letting men marry men and women marry women."

"Seriously?"

"Yeah."

"Uh. Well, our people are going to hate learning that you’re not straight."

Harry grimaced. "To be honest, I don’t even know if I’m gonna make any of this public. I mean, if I’m lucky I’ll end up with a woman, and no one will have to know!" He knew from many hours of therapy that this was bargaining, but he pushed the thought aside.

Draco nodded. For a second he looked as though he was about to say something, but he closed his mouth immediately after. Instead he said, "Do some people around you know?"

"Yeah. My therapist, Ron and Hermione, and a few others... Ginny, too."

"Shit, you told your Weasley girlfriend?"

"More like I told Hermione, who told Ron who ran to his sister."

"Oh"

"Yeah. It was a weird few weeks." Harry took a sip of his drink. "What about you?"

"My parents, though they keep, um, forgetting about it."

"Wow."

"Yeah." Draco cocked his head, looking past Harry. "They keep on trying to introduce me to good pureblood Witches, which is always awkward for everyone involved."

"You can’t just tell them to piss off?"

"They’re my parents, Harry. My mum loves me."

Harry nodded. "She does." He hadn’t forgotten Narcissa Malfoy saving his life for her son’s sake, despite her allegiance to Voldemort. Harry shook his shoulders, pushing the images of the Forbidden Forest away. "Hey, how about those photos then?"

"Pardon?"

"The photos. From a few weeks ago."

"Oh. Yeah, I’m editing them."

Harry sat back in his chair. "Are they good?"

Draco considered for a few seconds. "They’re good as such, but they lack something, I can’t quite put my finger on it... They don’t have the right mood."

"Too handsome?" offered Harry.

"Too clean."

"Why thank you."

"No, I mean..." Draco gestured vaguely, mouth half open. "They need something more, I don’t know, spontaneous. These look like a photoshoot."

"Well it was a photoshoot."

"I know, I know, and that might be the issue. But I can’t figure out how to make them more appropriate, and I think the Ministry will take them anyway."

"When’s your deadline?"

"November 13th. I still have, what, three weeks?" Draco shrugged. "I don’t know, I’ll try to figure something out by then."

Harry had faith he would, the Ministry wouldn’t have hired Draco if his pictures weren’t worth it. He finished his drink in silence, thinking about queer wizards and weddings and mental health campaigns. He hadn’t realised just how interesting chats with Draco Malfoy would be until he started having them on a weekly basis. He was grateful he’d given them a chance.

"Do you want to meet again next Tuesday?" offered Draco.

Harry did a quick mental calculation. The following Tuesday would be Halloween. "I can’t."

Recognition flashed across Draco’s face. "Oh, it’s– I see. Let’s meet later then."

"Yeah. I’ll write to you."

"Alright."


	5. Halloween

Harry Potter loved his friends. He really did. Before the War, during the War, after the War, they had always been there, always when and where he needed them.

But that was the thing, wasn't it. Tonight, what Harry needed was for his friends NOT to be around. They’d accompanied him to his parents’ graves on October 31st every year for the past few Halloweens, walked with him through the cemetery, offering hugs and tissues and warmth.

But this year, Harry could not think of anything worse than having to be with them on Halloween. Maybe it was the dust from the War finally starting to settle. Maybe he was growing up. Growing old.

_No way_ , he thought, downing another shot of some kind of strong alcohol. _I'm not growing old_. He coughed. _See, would an experienced adult cough on a shot?_

He was sitting on a stool at some muggle bar. If there was one night he did not want wizard attention, it was Halloween. He hadn't exactly planned on getting drunk, it wasn't part of his habits in any way, but tonight he needed some liquid courage. And a bit more. And a bit more. He'd stopped counting the shots after five.

He finally got up, leaving money on the counter, and wobbled his way outside. It had gone dark. Now he just had to find an unseen corner, and apparate straight to Godric's Hollow. Easy peasy. He'd grown quite used to apparating during the War.

The War. He grimaced, walking past a string of houses decorated in huge spiderwebs, glowing pumpkins and plastic ghosts. A small group of screaming children ran in front of him, waving wooden sticks in the general direction of the nearest decorated house. One little girl was behind the others, struggling to follow, holding a plastic broom between her legs.

"I guess the Ministry isn't doing such a good job at hiding things from Muggles," said a voice close to Harry. He spun around, regretting his decision as soon as he realised the pavement wasn't spinning at the same speed as his brain was. He closed his eyelids tight, before willing them open again, shaking his head– which didn't help.

"Draco?"

"Think so."

"What are you doing here?"

Draco raised the camera he was holding. "This is sort of the only thing I do nowadays."

"Why would you be interested in muggle Halloween?" his head was spinning uncomfortably. He was cold. He was grumpy. He wanted to get the hell out of here.

"I am interested in many things you don't know about, Harry."

"Humpf," Harry said, very eloquently. Well, if you'll excuse me, I have somewhere to be." He turned around then, and kept walking down the street. Merlin, this place was swarming with muggles, nowhere to apparate in peace.

"You're visiting your parents," Draco said behind him, matter-of-factly.

Harry spun back towards him, now with a sneer on his face.

"What's it to you?" he spat. He was angry now. Alcohol made him as prone to mood swings as he used to be when he was a teenager. He couldn’t find it in him to care.

"You can't apparate like that."

"What?" He didn't understand.

"You were going to apparate, were you not?"

He shook his head. "I AM going to apparate, Malfoy."

Draco didn't correct him. He looked serious. Concerned. "Where are your friends?"

"I'm not glued to them." His tone was harsh. Harry mentally apologised to Ron and Hermione.

"You can't apparate like that," Draco repeated.

"Heard you the first time. We have occasional chats, it doesn’t mean you’re responsible for me." Harry started turning back, but Draco grabbed his arm. His grip was strong, and Harry briefly wondered if muggles would notice if he did wandless magic to break free. He took a quick look around, and he realised a few kids were already staring at them.

"Let me go," he said between his teeth.

"Not happening. I won’t let you splinch yourself because you're too drunk to apparate properly. I'll come with you."

There was a beat of silence. Harry blew a loud raspberry, attracting the attention of several small children. It wasn't very mature, but that was the only response he had left in him. Draco sighed, highbrows raised, but his grip on Harry's arm didn't falter.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Harry rolled his eyes as far as he could (again, bad idea), and said: "okay, okay, you win!"

Draco left his hand around his arm as they walked, though it was now a way to make sure Harry wouldn't slip and break his nose, rather than to keep him from running away. They found a house that wasn't lit up, and Draco looked around as he gently pushed Harry in the pool of shadow that surrounded the garage door.

"Where to?" he asked in a low voice.

"Godric's Hollow."

Draco looked stunned for a second. "That's really far away to apparate, you definitely would have hurt yourself!" Harry shrugged, grabbing his arm, as Draco mumbled something about Gryffindors being idiots.

*******

Draco closed his eyes tightly to focus on their destination. He'd never like apparating much, though he wouldn't admit it any time soon. He breathed out. _Destination, Determination, Deliberation._

He felt Harry's grip on his arm tighten, and then his vision went black. He winced through the usual terrible pressure on his skull, felt his body twist and reshape itself, and had a quick thought for Harry, who was going through the same thing, except with alcohol in his veins and stomach.

After a few awful seconds of this treatment Draco finally felt his feet hit the pavement. It took him a second to realise Harry had let go of his arm. He was folded in half not far away, one arm wrapped around his abdomen and the other raised, his hand pushing his hair back. He was breathing hard. "You're terrible at this."

Draco wanted to say, _it's always terrible, you're the one who drank_ , but there was an edge to Harry's voice that deterred him. _Right_ , he reminded himself, _dead parents_.

They were standing in an alleyway, though the village was so small that they could have apparated in front of the church and no one would have been there to notice. Draco could see the outline of a hedge through the fog, barely visible in the dim street lamps light, and a few rectangular shapes behind it. The cemetery.

Harry seemed to finally catch his breath, and he stood up. He was pale, but at least he hadn't vomited– or, Merlin forbid, lost chunks of his body.

Draco felt a strange surge of contentment. He had seen Harry protect so many people over the years, with his strong head and suicidal impulses (he was, after all, a Gryffindor), and now Draco finally had a chance to protect him back. "Do you want me to– I mean–"

Harry looked at him as though he was weighing his options. "Come with me?" he asked. "At least to the entrance. I don't want to– I don't want to fall before I get there."

Draco nodded. He grabbed Harry's arm, gently but firmly, and they made their way towards the cemetery. Harry was shivering, but he wasn't moving to close his coat, leaving it flapping around in the wind. Draco wanted to reach to do it himself. He wanted to say something. He wanted to say so many things. _Why are your friends not with you, do you often drink to cope, please don't drink to cope, you're one of the only people who gets me, in a weird way, I don't want to lose you._

But again: dead parents. So he kept his mouth shut as they walked. They reached the gate and he pushed it, the cold metal biting into the skin of his fingers. He slowly let go of Harry's arm, and watched him wobble his way through the tombstones, farther into the fog. After a second of hesitation he took the decision to follow him from afar, to make sure he was okay.

Harry stopped in front of one of many grey stones. He swayed for a second or two, before giving up, and sitting in the grass. He extended a hand, tracing the engraved words with his fingertips. He might have been talking, but Draco couldn't tell for sure, as the wind was whistling in his ear– and he would have been too far away to hear anything anyway.

Harry remained there for several minutes, not swaying, not even shivering anymore. The only movement Draco could see was the faint expansion and compression of his chest as Harry breathed, and, if he squinted, he could catch a glimpse of the puffs of warm air escaping his mouth and getting lost in the fog.

He wondered distantly what degree of wrong it would be if he took a picture now. Because the scene _was_ beautiful, in its own tragic way. What was that that his therapist had said, again? Finding beauty in the terrible is human nature.

So he raised his camera, making sure the flash was off, and took a shot. He glanced at his screen. The photo was good. Very good, even. The fog rendered the background tombstones just faint enough, and Harry's black coat made his silhouette stand out starkly in the picture. You couldn't see his face, only his black hair pop here and there in messy curls.

When Draco looked back up, Harry was standing, facing him. He panicked for a second, letting his camera fall back against him, an apology on his lips, but then he saw Harry's expression. He didn't look angry. The corners of his mouth were pulled downwards, and he was breathing quickly, his body spasming a little with each inspiration.

It took a few seconds for Draco to register that Harry was holding back sobs. Without realising he was doing it, he walked the few steps that were separating them, and they collided. A bit brutally, actually. But Harry didn't say anything, instead he huffed a breath and buried his face in Draco's scarf, on the side of his throat. Draco wrapped his arms around him, holding him close. Tightly, just as his mother used to do when he was little and scared of storms. And just as his mother used to do, he smoothed a hand in Harry's hair, from the top of his head to his neck, and again. And he hummed. A lullaby whose lyrics he'd long forgotten.

*******

Harry was shaking against Draco. Full body spasms, from the grief of all the missed events, the birthday celebrations that he never had, the Christmases, the back-to-schools. The Halloweens.

Harry had really thought he didn't need his friends around this year. Didn't want them. But maybe this, that granite stone in this small village, maybe this was a kind of pain that would always require support from his friends.

Or from Draco. Was Draco his friend? He couldn't quite answer that question. He was exhausted. "....so tired," he said out loud.

Draco stopped humming, but his hand kept moving in Harry's hair, and he let him. "I know," he said.

*******

They remained there for another minute, maybe, until the cold starting creeping in, and the camera pressed painfully into Draco's body.

"Sorry," Harry said, wiping the now cold tears from his cheeks.

"Don't apologise."

"I'm sorry I'm such a mess."

"I'm not doing any better, Po–Harry. I just have more experience hiding it."

Harry had this look then, and it wasn't pity, no, it was understanding. Draco felt his heart break into a million pieces. Of course. Of course, the one person who got him would have to be Harry Potter.

And then, something he couldn't have planned happened: Harry smiled. Trembling, but wide. He choked back what sounded like a laugh– but it couldn't have been a laugh, right?

"I was apologising for the snot I might have left on Lord Malfoy's coat."

Draco stared at him blankly, and then wide-eyed.

"What the fuck, Potter?"

Harry was laughing now, nervously, his voice broken by the cold and the crying. "I'm kidding– I'm kidding! No snot, I promise! Your face!"

Draco shook his head, bewildered. "What is wrong with you?"

Harry just laughed again, until his laughter broke into another sob, and he hid his face behind his hand, taking deep breaths. After five breaths out and four breaths in, he appeared from behind his hand, eyes wet and face tense.

Draco was holding him by the shoulders. "You're alright?"

Harry didn't answer, he just had this small head movement, not quite a nod, and then started walking towards the entrance of the cemetery. Draco followed him in silence, looking at his silhouette. Harry was so full of contradictions, and twists, and hidden bits, so many puzzle pieces you had to dig for, and without which you would only ever see an image of Harry, a shadow.

Watching Harry from afar would be the same as looking at the photos Draco had taken just a few weeks ago for the interview, and fooling yourself into thinking that you knew who he was.

Draco felt as though he was slowly digging up these puzzle pieces, and adding them to his understanding of him. And he found he liked that. He'd spent all of his childhood seeing the same half dozen members of the wizarding aristocracy, and then he'd gone to Hogwarts only to be friends with the children of said aristocracy. He'd never had to learn to understand anyone. Or discover anyone's buried puzzle pieces. Because everyone around him had been made from the same mould, which was the same that their parents had been made from, and their parents' parents...

But Harry wasn't made from any mould. Harry was terrifyingly free. Free from all the traditions, the expectations.

And that was probably why Draco had wanted to be his friend so badly when they were children. Harry represented an escape route. And then the desire for friendship had developed as this annoying crush, later, and Draco had hated it, hated him. For his freedom.

Of course, he'd only understand later, when things got serious, when people started dying and Harry was in the middle of it all, that Harry wasn't free at all. His prison was just of a different kind.

Harry had reached the entrance. He stood there, watching Draco catch up, and he looked like he'd somewhat sobered up.

When Draco got to his level, Harry didn't turn around. Instead he grabbed Draco's forearm, as people sometimes do when making a deal, and Draco instinctively did the same. He felt his cheeks heat up from the sudden intimacy.

"Thank you," said Harry, his face serious. "Thank you for coming."

Draco nodded, and swallowed. "Look, Harry... I don't really know what we are, but I want you to know you can count on me."

Harry's eyes looked wet, but he couldn't tell whether it was from the icy wind, or from his words. They let go of each other's forearms. They started walking. Not towards a specific place, since they would have to apparate back to London anyway, but they both needed a minute before they did that.

"I'm glad to know I can always send an owl if I want someone to hum to me," Harry said, a grin in his voice.

"Shut up."

Harry barked a laugh, voice still broken, and then he said, his voice softer: "I was only half joking. Thank you."


	6. Letters

 

_Thu Nov 2nd, 2000_

_Dear Draco,_

_Merlin, it’s still strange to start letters that way. Anyway, I still needed to give you a time for a proper lunch date, so how about Wednesday 8th at that pub we went to last time?_

_I’m sorry about the Halloween night, I know you wanted to spend the evening taking photos. I’m grateful you were there though, I definitely needed someone._

_Hope to talk to you soon,_

_Harry._

_PS: Ron and Hermione are getting married this Sunday, and their photographer just resigned at the last minute... I threw in your name, and you’re the only photographer we know. Would you like the gig?_

* * *

 

 

_Fri Nov 3rd, 2000_

_Dear Harry,_

_I’ll be there on Wednesday. And I’d be glad to work at your friends’ wedding, if that’s alright with them._

_Don’t worry about Halloween, it’s okay. I hope you’re feeling better._

_Actually, about Halloween, there’s something I wanted to tell you about... I took a photo of you, at the cemetery. I wasn’t going to do anything with it, but then it occurred to me that it would actually work great for the awareness campaign._

_It is obviously a very personal shot, and I wouldn’t share it with anyone without you agreeing first. I enclosed a print of it. It has got the kind of energy I was looking for, that the photoshoot shots simply don’t have._

_See you soon,_

_Draco._

_PS: I keep meaning to tell you in person, but I always chicken out. I’ve been thinking of kissing you, it’s plaguing my thoughts just like it used to when I was 16._

 

* * *

 

Harry folded the letter in on itself, heart pounding.


	7. The Wedding

Spring weddings had become much less popular among the people who’d taken part in the Battle of Hogwarts, understandably enough, and that’s why Ron and Hermione’s had been set on a November Sunday.

Molly Weasley had insisted for the wedding to happen at the Burrow, and she’d used several people’s help to cover the place in spells and protections against the rain and the cold.

Harry had arrived the night before, fairly drunk and accompanied by a very happy post-Stag night Ron and a few other friends from Hogwarts. Neville couldn’t stop giggling, Dean and Seamus were hanging tightly onto each other in order not to fall, and George’s puns had stopped making sense a good two hours prior.

Needless to say, everything had been a bit too bright and fuzzy for Harry to truly look at the newly rebuilt Burrow. He’d last seen it over a year ago, when he still used to date Ginny. He’d always been welcome there, obviously, but he’d been feeling intrusive among the Weasleys after the break-up, so he hadn’t come back.

However, he was the first to get up from his mattress in Ron’s bedroom in the morning, and he went exploring the house despite the hangover gnawing at his brain. The only people there apart from Ron’s Stag night partners were Molly and Arthur, so the house was still quiet.

He had some trouble finding his way around, the layout having been changed while rebuilding– and perhaps not all for the best. The walls looked less like they were about to crumble, and the hallways seemed a little larger, but the Burrow has somehow retained its strange familiarity and peace that had lead Harry to call this place his first real home outside of Hogwarts.

Maybe it was the hangover, but Harry felt tears prickle at his eyelids when he smelled the very particular scent of Molly’s pancakes coming from down the stairs. Not that he’d be eating any– hangover, remember–, but still. It felt like it had been decades since he’d last smelled those.

In any case, it had been over a year since he’d last seen Molly, and he froze when he reached the bottom of the stairs and saw her standing there, back to him, humming as she put a newly cooked pancake on an already unstable pile.

"I thought none of you children would wake up," she said, turning around. "Must have been quite the ni–" Her voice died when she saw who was in her kitchen. "Harry!"

She threw the towel she was holding towards the sink and hurried around the table, arms extended in front of her. She held Harry’s shoulders with trembling fingers before wrapping her arms around him and holding him close. "Harry, my boy." Her voice quivered, but she didn’t let go. "We missed you so much, Arthur and I. The rest of the family too, you know." She pulled back to look at him with shining eyes.

Harry looked at the ground. "I know, Mrs Weasley, I– it’s just–"

"I know," said Molly, and Harry didn’t doubt she did. "I know."

Molly had always been great at reading her children, and that included Harry. She knew when they needed space. "We’re always here if you need us, though, you know that."

"I do." Harry took a deep breath, and he added, "I’d missed your pancakes."

"Have some!"

"Oh, yeah, well, um. I don’t think so, Mrs Weasley. Like you said, it was quite the night. I doubt any of us will be able to eat anything this morning."

Molly had a sly smile. "Oh, I don’t think that’ll keep Ron from eating breakfast, do you?"

Harry snorted. "No, you’re right."

"Sit, I’ll make you coffee. And you can tell me about what I missed. Ron updates me some, but I want to hear it from you."

Harry pulled a chair for himself, smiling when it creaked under him. He was so glad to find Molly hadn’t changed, that she was still so warm and genuine. He’d been so afraid to lose her when Ginny and him had fallen apart, that he’d cut ties before she could do it. His therapist had made him realise, months later, that this was him protecting himself by locking himself in a bubble away from the world, and that he couldn’t do this forever.

However, connecting back to Mrs Weasley was way easier said than done, and he’d avoided it for as long as he could. But now Ron and Hermione were getting married, and he didn’t have any choice anymore– and it was for the best.

They talked. Mostly about the weather and about other people, they avoided all the important topics, the therapy, the nightmares, the break-up; but they talked nonetheless. Half an hour later Neville showed up downstairs, and Harry slipped out to take a shower. The hangover had almost disappeared.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

When Harry exited the bathroom, dressed in a simple jeans-and-shirt for now, there were a few more people around the house. The other Weasley brothers were in the kitchen arguing and joking, and Harry saluted them on the way. He went to the garden, where more friends and relatives were working on putting up the tents and surrounding them in all kinds of flowers and lights. That was one advantage of magic, one could do this kind of things at the last minute with some simple spells.

"Harry?"

He turned. Ginny was standing just there, in denim overalls, wand poking from her chest pocket.

"Ginny!" Harry didn’t move. He hadn’t seen her since they’d broken up. It hadn’t exactly been a brutal parting, but still, seeing her standing there made him want to run and hide.

"I–" he said, right when Ginny said, "Listen–" They both stopped. "You first," said Ginny.

"I’m glad to see you."

"Me too," breathed Ginny. "I think of you, you know. I keep hoping you’re happy." She sounded like she’d rehearsed that in her head.

Harry didn’t quite know what to do with his hands, so he shoved them in his pockets. "Are you?"

"I’m okay," she said. A few silent seconds passed. "Did you hear that? I think Mum’s calling me, I should go see."

Molly definitely hadn’t called, but Harry let her go without a word. They might be okay again sometimes, him and Ginny. Ginny was too intelligent to hold a grudge, and he was too close to the Weasleys to let something like that happen.

He took a deep breath, and started walking towards Percy to be assigned a task. There was still a lot to be done.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

It’s Ron that warned Harry of Draco’s arrival. He slipped next to him as he was trapping some sparks in a crystal bauble, and whispered, "your guest’s arrived."

"My what?" Harry sent the bauble to hover with the others near the altar, and turned to his friend.

Ron nodded towards the corner of the house, where Draco was standing in the shadow and fidgeting with the strap of his camera backpack. Despite his best efforts, Harry’s thoughts immediately went to Draco’s confession in his latest letter. A confession that had been swimming in his own thoughts, too. He cleared his throat, hoping the blush of his cheeks would be perceived as a consequence of his hard work at his decorating tasks. "Can you ask someone to take over?"

"I can always assign this task to Seamus," Ron said in a flat voice.

"Don’t you dare."

Ron laughed. "Wouldn't it be fun though?"

Harry was already walking towards Draco, but he turned back and repeated, "Don’t you dare!"

Ron lifted his hands in surrender.

Harry had almost reached the corner of the house when Draco saw him. "Harry, hey!" His cheeks looked a bit red as well, but his expression was unreadable.

"You’re early!"

"I know, I hope it’s not a problem, but I like to get to know my environment before the crowd gets too big, in events such as this one."

"It’s not a problem," Harry reassured him. He put a hand on his shoulder before realising it, and he awkwardly transformed it into an amicable tap before anyone noticed. He cleared his throat. "Do you, uh– do you want something to drink? There’s water on that table over there–" he pointed at the only table "–well, you can guess which table."

"I’ll be alright, thanks." He didn’t look it, though. He seemed paler than usual, and his eyes kept jumping from person to person, as though he was asking himself what he was doing there.

"Okay, well... Come find me if you need anything, yeah?"

"Will do."

"Okay."

"Okay."

_Smooth, Harry, real smooth. Imperturbable and unperturbed._

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The ceremony went as planned, which surprised Harry, and it was stunning, which did not surprise him. Hermione started crying silent tears half way through Ron’s vows, and Ron didn’t last that long through Hermione’s.

Teddy Lupin in a neat suit carried the rings to the altar, his hair changing from green to pink when he sneezed on the way, which happened to be a welcome distraction from all the crying that was going on.

The soon-to-be married couple put the rings on each other’s fingers, and the tent exploded in cheers when they finally kissed. And no one was shouting louder than Harry.

From the corner of his eye he saw Draco on one knee in front of his friends, taking shot after shot without checking them. He knew what he was doing. He had this intensely focused attitude that he’d had during their photoshoot, eyebrows pulled together and movements quick and precise. Harry felt glad Draco had found something worth focusing on.

Draco only looked up for a split second, and his gaze found his. He went back to his camera so fast that Harry wondered if he’d dreamed.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The tents were reorganised for the dinner, and then the tables themselves were disposed of for the partying. Some Wizard band had been hired for the occasion, and they were giving it their all.

Night had fallen a good two hours ago, and some additional magical fires had had to be lit around the dancefloor. Harry had put the bar to good use, and the Burrow once again seemed to be buzzing and swaying, and Harry was so simply happy. He danced with Luna for a while, and then Mrs Weasley, and then some relative of Ron’s whose name he didn’t even know.

It’s after letting go of that unnamed tall bearded man, that he noticed Draco. He was sitting on the edge of the light, on a wooden bench, seemingly looking through his pictures.

Harry wobbled to him and extended a hand. "Care to dance?"

Draco lifted his head, and snorted. "I doubt anyone here wants to see me dance."

"Okay, not here then." Harry wasn’t very stable, so he put a knee and hand to the ground, and looked up at Draco. "Come with me."

Draco seemed to consider for a minute, glanced around, and then he grabbed Harry’s still extended hand. "Where to?"

Harry didn’t answer. He just turned his grip on Draco’s hand as they were both getting up, and pulled him towards the corner of the house, where the magical fires didn’t quite shine.

*******

The music was muffled here, and the darkness was enough for a few stars to be visible. Harry grabbed Draco’s other hand and he looked up, long enough that Draco actually wondered if he had forgotten where he was.

"I’ve been thinking about your letter," Harry said, still looking at the stars. "I’ve been thinking about it all the time." His fingers glided further up Draco’s arms, nails digging in the bunched-up fabric at Draco’s elbows. "I’ve been picturing it." There was a smile on his lips.

"You’re drunk," murmured Draco.

"Am not!" exclaimed Harry, before losing his balance, snorting, and admitting, "I am. But I’m also not lying."

Draco distractedly pushed a strand of Harry’s hair away from his face. He was rewarded with the most vulnerable smile he’d ever seen on Harry. "I had to tell you," he said after a while.

Out there, past the house, the music changed from a lively one to a much softer melody. A lovers’ song. Harry swayed again, a hand leaving Draco’s arm to go to his waist, pulling him into a dance. A drunken dance, but a dance still. He closed his eyes, humming the melody, his expression more peaceful than it had been in a long time.

On impulse, Draco cupped Harry’s face with his free hand. Harry didn’t open his eyes, but he smiled wider and leaned into it, and Draco felt the vibration of Harry’s humming in the spot where his palm and wrist met.

Harry’s skin was so warm against his palm. His cheeks were red from the alcohol and the cold, and his lips even redder.

Draco thought of how warm they probably were. How they’d feel on his own lips. And then he just couldn’t bear it anymore, he had to know, he had to touch them.

He leaned forward, and brushed his lips against Harry’s.

And it was so much softer than he’d imagined. It was everything his teenage self had dreamt of, and more; it tasted like cake and firewhisky and it sent sparks to his head and his fingers and deep in his gut.

When he pulled back, Harry hadn’t moved, apart from his eyes now being open. And his smile being even wider.

"Again," Harry breathed, and before he finished his word Draco was kissing him, properly this time, and he couldn’t believe this was happening, and he felt Harry’s hand wander on his back and he realised his own was tangling strands of Harry’s hair, and it was so good, so insanely good.

*******

It’s Draco who pulled back after a few seconds, panting. He let his forehead rest against Harry’s, and they remained in this position for some time, neither saying a word.

"We should do that again when I’m not drunk," Harry said after a while.

"Agreed."

"Your friends will worry. We’d better go back."

"Guess we’d better."

The song changed again, into one that Harry vaguely recalled as being Ron’s favourite, and he guessed his friend would be looking for him to dance. He pulled Draco closer and kissed him again, quickly, before letting go of him. He took a few steps backwards, looking back at Draco.

His lips and cheeks were red, standing starkly on his pale skin, and his mouth was half-open. He looked dazed. Harry could see his chest rising and falling quickly, and that made him smile. "I love weddings," he said.

"Me too," murmured Draco.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Ron and Hermione left on the very next day for their honeymoon around Europe, and only a few people remained at the Burrow to clean everything up. Despite the liberal use of magic, getting rid of all the burnt firework pieces, unenchanting the flowers that had been made to change scent with the weather, and disassembling the tents took a good five hours.

Most people left before the evening though, even Molly and Arthur, who’d gone to offer the leftover food to various friends and soup kitchens.

Harry was therefore left alone at the Burrow, and he was entirely enjoying the silence and peace after the several days of celebrating and drinking. And some even more exciting events. He was about to fall asleep on a living room couch, when he heard a voice whisper his name.

"Uh, what?" he called, looking for the voice’s source.

"Harry! It’s me!"

"Hermione?" Wasn’t she supposed to be in France by then?

"Fireplace, you idiot!"

"Oh."

Hermione’s face was indeed in the fireplace, as Harry noticed upon getting up and sitting cross-legged in front of it. "What’s wrong?"

Hermione looked behind her quickly, before turning around again. "Nothing wrong, Harry, I just needed to tell you–" she turned around "Yes Ron, I’m coming! Sorry, I don’t have long, Ron is waiting for me in the shower..."

Harry winced. "I really don’t need those details."

"Sorry." She grimaced. "But I needed to tell you..."

"What?"

Hermione chewed at her bottom lip, like she usually did when deciding on the proper words. "You know you can tell us anything, right?"

"Yeah," Harry chuckled. "What’s this about?"

"Harry!" she sounded exasperated.

"What is it!"

"Harry. I saw you kiss him."

Harry felt nauseous. His ears were buzzing, and his fingertips too. He really thought they’d been out of sight, but then again he’d been drunk, he might have overestimated the darkness...

"Harry?"

"Okay," he breathed.

"Look, Harry, it’s– yes Ron, I’m coming!– it’s okay, really, I just wanted to tell you, it’s okay, just... Just be careful, yeah?"

"I’m trying to, Hermione."

"We can talk about it when we come back. You can write me letters too, but I don’t know if I’ll have time to answer." She started chewing on her bottom lip again. "I love you, Harry."

"Love you too, Mione. Have a good time."

Hermione looked at him for a few more seconds, and then the connection faltered and cut. The fire turned back to its usual shape, crackling softly.

_My therapist will just love all of this_ , Harry thought.

 


	8. The campaign (bis)

Harry eventually had to tell Ron about this new development, after Hermione threatened to reveal it all herself. Ron’s immediate reaction had been to go mute and leave the house, only to come back a few hours later, saying he’d just eaten a lot of good food and had made his peace with his 'best friend’s insanity'.

Harry counted it as a win.

Harry and Draco kept on meeting every few days, except that their chats were now occasionally accompanied by kisses stolen in dark corners, when they were certain no one could recognise them. And, you know what? Sober kissing was even better than drunk kissing.

They didn’t talk about the awareness campaign a whole lot; but on the opening day of said campaign, however, Draco suggested Harry came over so they could open a good bottle of wine he’d been saving. They met at King’s Cross, where Draco handed Harry a copy of the Daily Prophet.

On the front cover was the photo Draco had taken on the night of Halloween, titled _War hero Harry Potter speaks up about mental health_.

The article went on about the Ministry’s awareness campaign, and then transitioned into the interview Harry had given. ‘ _Muggles are a lot more used to visiting all kinds of specialists, and the statistics prove the importance of doing such a thing..._ ’

"Did you memorise these numbers for the interview?" Draco asked with an amused smile.

"Hermione made me!"

"I don’t doubt that. Where is she, by the way? I’d guessed she’d have wanted to celebrate this with you, given that she’s the one who pushed you, isn’t she?"

Harry blushed despite himself, face turned pointedly towards the newspaper. "Oh, Hermione, yeah, well... She did want to celebrate with me."

"But?"

"But–" Harry looked at him defiantly "–I mentioned you’d invited me and she forbade me from celebrating with her."

Draco laughed. Harry had heard him laugh so many times now, but he didn’t think he could ever get tired of that sound.

Harry cleared his throat. "So you, uh, you mentioned a bottle of wine?"

"Yes! Muggle wine, actually. And a very good one. Come on, my flat is that way." Draco pointed down a street, and they started walking.

Harry remembered Draco talking about his flat almost two months prior, on the first lunch they’d shared. It felt so close, and yet so impossibly far.

Yet there he was. Standing next to Draco as he fiddled with his keys to find the right one. Harry felt suddenly alien in this environment. The silence was heavy on his shoulders. He looked around, scrambling for something to say. "Is that a Nimbus 2000?"

"Uh?"

"Your key-chain."

Draco looked at it. "Oh! Yeah."

"Not living completely muggle-style, then."

"Not completely." Draco finally found the right key, and he unlocked the door. He gestured for Harry to enter, and walked in right after him.

The flat was small, and it was the first thing Harry noticed. It wasn’t completely decrepit, but one could still see in the imperfect paint job and the scratches in the furniture that it wasn’t brand new.

"It’s..."

"It’s awful," Draco said, shoulders tense. "I know."

Harry shrugged. "I’ve lived in worse."

"Anything’s better than the Manor though."

"I bet."

Harry had avoided Draco’s gaze since he’d entered. Instead he looked at the piles of books, the clothes neatly folded on top of a set of drawers, the potted plant sitting on the floor next to it. The expertly made bed and its soft-looking white sheets.

"Want some?"

Harry felt his arm spasm against him. "Pardon?" He whirled around.

Draco was holding a bottle of wine in one hand, and a glass half-full in the other. "The wine. I poured your glass."

"Oh. I didn’t– I hadn’t heard you." Harry grabbed the glass in one hand, shoving the other one in his pocket to keep it from doing anything weird.

Draco poured himself a glass in silence, and put the bottle aside on the counter. "To your participation in the Ministry’s campaign!" he said, raising his glass. "I truly think it'll help."

They clanged their glasses together, and both drank a sip.

"I don’t know much about wine, but this is good," Harry commented.

Draco took a second to taste it properly. "It really is. I’m glad I kept it for a special occasion, instead of drinking it alone."

"Oh, yeah, right. Not many guests."

"Quality over quantity!" Draco said, and although the words were a bit sour, he was smiling at Harry. Looking straight at him, openly and unblinkingly. And then he hooked his fingers around Harry’s arm, pulled him towards himself, and he kissed him. “I’m glad you did this campaign, he murmured against his lips.

"Me too," Harry mumbled. He could smell the fruity scent of the wine in Draco’s breath, so close to his own mouth. He saw Draco’s eyelids flutter close, and suddenly they were kissing again. And then both glasses had been left on the counter, and fingers were digging in fabric, pulling at collars and buttons, disorganised, blind, needy.

"I– I need you Harry– I need you closer–"

"Closer," Harry agreed, and he let him remove the glasses from his face. Draco kissed his nose, his forehead, the scar that laid there, he kissed his jaw, his throat, his collarbone.

And then Draco unbuttoned his shirt, and Harry paused to touch the long scars on his chest from the tips of his fingers. "I’m sorry," he said, voice low and quivering.

"It’s okay, it’s nothing," Draco murmured, and he touched his lips to Harry’s eyelids, one by one. "I need you," he repeated. "I need you."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

If he had to be honest, Harry was very tempted to flee Draco’s flat during the night. He pictured himself doing it, his heart beating fast as he’d hastily put his clothes back on and run back to his own house.

He stayed awake long after Draco had fallen asleep, considering the risks of trying to escape. He remembered Draco’s sleepy voice – adorable – asking him to stay, but now that he was left with his own thoughts, staring at the ceiling, the slightly damp sheets sticking to him, he was finding himself terrified. Terrified of what he was getting into, terrified of Draco and of himself and of what they might become.

Draco shifted beside him and threw and arm over his chest, dragging his upper body on top of Harry’s. His hair was right under Harry’s head. And his scent was so exquisite. He smelled like sex and expensive shampoo and Halloween.

And Harry felt his fears dilute in the smell of that blond-white hair, and he closed his eyes.

They shared breakfast in the morning, and though neither really talked, they both had the most ridiculous grin on their faces. They spent the rest of the day together too, and when Harry shared his surprise that Draco didn’t have any gig planned for that day, Draco admitted, red-cheeked, that he’d thought, well, he’d hoped, at least, that perhaps, if he was lucky, maybe Harry would have spent the night. "Which you did," he added. "So I was right."

Harry truly, terribly wanted to spend the following night at Draco’s too– but him having a gig early the next day, as well as Harry’s intuition that Hermione would want to see him, dissuaded him from that line of action. So they made out one last time, far longer than initially intended, and then Harry was on his way, head full of sparks.

He swung by his house to change clothes and brush his teeth, before following his intuition and going to Ron and Hermione’s. He didn’t even have time to take his finger off the doorbell that the door swung open, revealing a squealing Hermione who grabbed his arm with no gentleness and dragged him inside.

"I want to hear everything," she said, shoving him at the kitchen table and pushing a warm teacup in front of him.

Harry laughed, and even his blush couldn’t ruin his mood. "Are you sure you can handle it?"

Hermione looked at him very seriously. "I have never been more ready."


	9. Epilogue

The Wizarding Mental Health Awareness Campaign did at least raise one awareness, and that's the awareness of Harry Potter. If he thought he'd finally escaped the press's attention, he'd have to deal with a few extra months of heightened interest for the Chosen One.

This attention didn't falter, even on Christmas Eve, as Harry, Ron, Hermione and Draco were making some last-minute shopping for their dinner to come. They heard the trouble coming before they even exited the bookshop, in the form of the low rumble that only a crowd of reporters makes.

And indeed there was one waiting in the street under the light snowfall, that soon started yelling questions ranging from Harry's participation in the Ministry's campaign, to his thoughts on the latest Weird Sisters album. Harry ignored them as he elbowed his way through the small crowd. He thought he'd made it, when he heard a familiarly hated voice behind him. "Mr Potter, a word about the rumours that you are a pervert?"

That got Harry's attention. He stopped walking and turned around. "Pardon?"

Rita Skeeter was standing there, her notepad and enchanted quill floating next to her. Her smile was triumphant as she repeated, "That asylum you go to, it is to get rid of your sexual deviance, correct?"

Draco looked as though he might vomit. Even Hermione looked too stunned to respond, and Ron wasn't any better.

And that's when Harry felt a cold anger wash over him. He had gone through way too much to let someone as insignificant as Rita Skeeter call him a pervert. He smiled at her, taking a long breath in.

"The person I'm seeing is a therapist, actually, though I'm certain you'll find all the information you might need by reading the very newspaper that you work for. I do however believe she has a significant number of qualifications that would make her the expert on the matter of my sexuality."

Rita's smile trembled a little, but she didn't otherwise move as her quill was frantically scratching the paper. "But are you or are you not sexually deviant?"

Harry smiled again. He'd always had trouble caring for the consequences of his actions. He was a Gryffindor, after all.

He turned towards Draco and, after exchanging a glance, grabbed his hand. The crowd of reporters started shifting and moving, and a few flashes broke the winter darkness. "I'm assuming you've heard of Draco Malfoy," he said, loudly enough for everyone around to hear. And then he put his other hand on Draco's neck, pulled him down, and kissed him. He felt his ears buzz, saw the many flashes on the other side of his closed eyelids, and he was vaguely aware of Draco moaning in the kiss for good measure.

When he pulled back, he'd half lost track of what he was doing. "He's my boyfriend," he murmured. Somewhere close, someone whooped, and Harry guessed that it was most likely Hermione. "He's my boyfriend!" he repeated, louder, unable to take his eyes away from Draco, who looked at him as though he was the greatest treasure he'd ever seen. From the corner of his eye, Harry saw Ron clap excitedly, and Hermione soon following him. "HE'S MY BOYFRIEND!" he shouted.

The reporters seemed to have more of a professional excitement for the news, but an excitement still, and the flashes were so constant that it was as though Harry and his friends were standing in a spotlight. Draco bent down to kiss Harry again, wrapping his arms around his torso, and Harry felt as though he could just melt in those arms and forget about everything else.

He wrapped his own arms around Draco, and pulled him into a tight hug. "I love you," he said, low enough so that only Draco would hear.

"Fucking Gryffindors," grumbled Draco, and then, "I love you too."


End file.
